


Your Best Shot

by sanerontheinside



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: M/M, PWP, translated work, перевод с русского на английский
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25153831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: Roman Sionis had never yet managed to fuck up this badly.
Relationships: Ra's al Ghul/Roman Sionis
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	Your Best Shot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orientalld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orientalld/gifts), [damngoodcoffee (eva_s)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eva_s/gifts).
  * A translation of [Твой лучший выстрел](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000663) by [damngoodcoffee (eva_s)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eva_s/pseuds/damngoodcoffee). 



> A lovely fic by damngoodcoffee (eva_s), translated from Russian by yours truly, with invaluable assistance from pumpci.

  
The evening isn’t working out—Roman knows it the moment Canary starts singing  _ that _ song. Is it really that hard to figure out that he doesn’t want to listen to a song about chains and cages and pain? It would’ve been better if she were singing about love. 

Zsasz is away. Roman sent him off on an errand, so  _ he’s _ the one who has to go up to the stage and get Canary to bend down. She has such beautiful hair; Roman loves the feeling of those springy locks between his fingers. He catches the tresses and tugs her closer, almost gently. 

“Now how about something different, my darling?” he whispers into her ear. “Something romantic. We’re all romantics here, yeah?” 

He presses a kiss to her hot cheek and lets her go. Love. There’s nothing better than love. 

When he turns back to the club floor, he catches sight of a new face. 

The stranger is a large man, dressed completely in black. He’s taken Roman’s seat at the nearest table, right next to David Phill. There’s an ironic little smile on his face as he chats with the man. Roman seethes. He hasn’t put up with having Phill in the club for a week just for the owner of the world’s ugliest beard to steal him away! 

But Roman needs this deal with Phil, so he decides to be polite a little longer. Just a little bit. 

“David! Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” 

It takes but a glance for the girl on the other side of the booth to jump up and make herself scarce, allowing Roman to take the seat across from the two men. Roman smiles brightly, eyeing both Phill and his companion. A closer glance reveals that the man’s suit is not quite as plain and boring as he’d thought. There’s definitely something about those shiny lapels. 

“Henri Ducard,” Phill introduces his companion. 

“A pleasure, Mr. Ducard,” Roman purrs, but doesn’t offer his hand. He weaves his fingers together on the table in front of him, the golden gloves a match to his new jacket. 

Ducard merely nods, a calm smile on his face, relaxed against the booth. He turns his gaze towards the stage. Roman feels a prickle of irritation—usually, he’s not so blatantly ignored. 

_ “Why don’t you hit me with your best shot?” _ Canary sings, but right now Roman just wants her to shut up. 

He decides to make one final attempt at being charming—and to get his well-deserved appreciation for it, too. “How do you like the club, Mr. Ducard?” 

Ducard regards him again. 

“Not bad.” His voice is low and smooth, and Roman involuntarily licks his lips. But then Ducard goes on: “At the very least, the singer’s talent more than makes up for all this pompous frippery.”

Phill pales, but Roman’s hands have already struck the table with a crack. 

“Enough!” he yells. 

The bouncers materialise out of thin air to drag Ducard out of his seat and away from the table. 

“Roman!” David has a strange look on his face. “You shouldn’t—” 

“Oh, shut up! I didn’t waste a week on you so that you could bring some asshole in here with you and tell  _ me _ what to do! Actually, you know what—get the fuck out of here with your fucking stocks and investment portfolios! Get him out of here!” he tells the guards, jabbing a thumb in Phill’s direction. “And get the other one downstairs!” 

Phill is trying to tell him something, head twisted back over his shoulder as he’s being dragged out the door, but Canary has reached her crescendo and she’s singing her heart out, and Roman can’t hear a thing. 

_ Oh, why don’t you hit me with your best shot? _

*** 

The bouncers tie Ducard to a chair, and the view improves immediately. Still, Roman doesn’t like that the lazy smile never leaves the man’s well-groomed face. 

“This is your club? Well, your hospitality is impressive,” Ducard says. The guard takes a step forward, but Roman raises his hand and wags a finger at him. 

“No-no,” he says. “I’ll deal with him myself. Get out.”

“Mr. Sionis, maybe—” 

“Out! Get the fuck out!” Roman shouts. That leaves him alone with Ducard. 

Much calmer now, Roman flops back into a chair and eyes his prisoner. He makes a very pretty picture: Roman traces the breadth of Ducard’s chest with an appreciative gaze; his spread legs, hugged by the taut cloth of those slim-cut dress pants. 

Roman stands lazily, taking out his gun, and comes closer. He trails the muzzle up a muscled thigh, higher and higher, until he has it pressed under Ducard’s chin. 

“I’d recommend you my barber, but you won’t be needing him, pretty soon,” he purrs, gazing into those blue eyes. 

To his surprise, he doesn’t find fear in them at all. That throws him a little. He presses the gun in harder, forcing Ducard to tilt back his head, but Ducard only smiles. 

“I’d recommend you find yourself a half-decent stylist, but something tells me that it wouldn’t help,” Ducard says. 

Roman draws back and strikes that smug face with the butt of his pistol. 

Ducard’s head whips back. But he merely tips it forward again, licks the blood off his split lip and snorts. 

“That’s it?” 

Roman loses it. But he doesn’t even get the chance to press the hammer down before the ceiling whips before his eyes in a sick somersault, and then the floor mercilessly hits his face. There’s a sharp, awful pain from the arm twisted up behind his back—Roman moans, and again when he tries to break free of the hold. 

“I like you better this way,” Ducard’s pleased voice rumbles from somewhere above him. “You shouldn’t speak at all, Roman. Just moan.” 

“You—!” Roman tries to kick at him, but only hears another quiet chuckle. Then his vision explodes in a fiery burst, and everything goes dark. 

***

“Ow!” 

Zsasz jerks his hand back, but then his mouth twists and he brings that stinking cotton wad back up to Roman’s face. 

“I leave you alone for one night,” he scowls, dabbing at the split brow. 

“Fuck off,” Roman makes a face at him. “Who could’ve guessed what this Ducard guy was like? I didn’t even see when he got out of the ties.” 

Zsasz’s hand stops. 

“Who…?” he asks warily. 

“Henri Ducard! Or Ducan, I don’t fucking know. Phill brought him. He said my club was shit!” 

“Roman…” Zsasz says, voice strangely weak, and Roman glares at him. “Tell me you didn’t. I didn’t just hear you say that you tried to teach Henri Ducard a lesson.” 

“You deaf, Zsasz? That’s exactly what I said. That fucker smashed my face into the floor and ran off.”

Zsasz tosses the cotton aside onto the table and looks at Roman like he just murdered his beloved grandmother. 

“What!” Roman yells and shoves him hard. Zsasz just takes a step back and laughs. 

“You don’t even know, Roman. You have no idea.” 

*** 

The next two days, Roman tries to think of a way to apologise. He can’t come up with anything, though, so he just invites Ducard to his house. A nice dinner, a good bottle of wine—all of that should help. After all, if Ducard wanted him dead, he’d have killed Roman right there in the club. 

Roman doesn’t know what he did to deserve this kind of fucking luck. To tie up Ra’s al Ghul himself to a chair in his basement—what the hell kind of idiot do you have to be? He nearly groans aloud at the very thought. And his brow still aches. 

He sends Zsasz over with the invitation, then spends an hour pacing the loft as he waits for an answer—trying on jackets and fixing his masks, or hovering in front of the window and glaring at his phone. He’s most afraid that Ra’s will refuse: that would be a humiliation gone too far. He’ll have to think of something to get rid of the man, and that’s such a waste of resources. Ra’s al Ghul would be a valuable ally, if only Roman hadn't fucked things up so badly. 

Then again, al Ghul hadn’t been all that polite about Roman’s club… 

He startles when the phone rings in his hand. 

“Well?!” 

“He says he’ll come.” 

Victor doesn’t say it, but there’s a definite note of ‘please don’t fuck it up this time’ in his tone. Roman can forgive him for that—he’s far too happy. And, probably, a little too nervous. 

_ “You shouldn’t speak at all—just moan,” _ he remembers that low voice saying, and feels a shiver run down his spine. 

He grins with anticipation. 

*** 

“And this here is the Iron Mask. They kept Louis XIV’s brother in it. The original, obviously.” 

Roman walks Ra’s al Ghul through his house, showing off his collection. He already showed him the Chinese acupuncture tools, his own statue, the shrunken heads, the African masks, and now they’re coming to the heart of this collection. Here he finally notices that Ra’s al Ghul’s face is marked with polite boredom, and it almost offends him, but he swallows down the sting quietly. 

Ra’s al Ghul turns to him. 

“Don’t you think that the need to hide your face behind some bright mask signifies a weakness of character?” 

Roman presses his lips into a tight line. 

“A person may remain invisible to accomplish their goals. A person may act openly, to become a symbol. But a mask?” 

Ra’s draws a finger along the bridge of the Iron Mask’s nose, and Roman shudders—bare hands! On his artifacts! But the gesture sparks something within him, something that begins to quietly tremble. 

“More wine?” he grits out. 

“Certainly.” Ra’s al Ghul is smiling again. He seems to delight in enraging Roman. 

Roman offers him a freshly filled glass and drops his gaze, yet again considering what to say. How to win al Ghul over to his side—yet not go so far as to not abase himself. 

“About that evening at the club…” 

“You wish to apologize, do you not?” 

Roman looks up at him. Ra's is eyeing him with interest, idly twirling the stem of the elegant wineglass between his fingers. His hands are so large that Roman finds himself staring, entirely losing his train of thought. Holy shit. 

“Apologise,” Ra's gestures invitingly. 

Roman thinks:  _ if I go for the gun, will I get a shot in first, or will I end up eating the floor again? Should I call Zsasz? _

He sets aside his wine, comes round the table, takes Ra’s’ glass from him and straddles his lap. Al Ghul raises an eyebrow. 

“An unusual manner of apology.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Roman says and tugs off his unbearably boring black jacket. 

Ra's doesn’t move to stop him as Roman fumbles with his clothes, only leans closer and nuzzles into his neck. Roman shivers. 

“Clive Christian? I thought better of you.” 

“At least you know the name,” Roman snaps. Every one of al Ghul’s stings is unbearable, it hits its mark in Roman’s sorest places—how dare anyone not admire him? 

“Touché,” Ra’s laughs, and Roman’s breath catches at the low, rich sound. 

Roman sighs raggedly, leans forward and bites at Ra’s’ lower lip. He feels a hot palm press tightly against the back of his head, the other hand on his hip. Ra’s al Ghul presses Roman’s body into his own, like a helpless doll. Roman’s eyes snap open: he feels something large and hard against his groin, rather like a nightstick. 

“You got a grenade launcher in there?” he asks weakly. Ra’s simply laughs and tugs him in harder, all but rubbing Roman’s body against his own. Roman chokes on a gasp at the rough handling and involuntarily moans. It would’ve been better if it had been grenade launcher—Roman has no fucking idea how he could take something that size. He’ll probably find out soon. Why the fuck didn’t he think to prepare himself? 

“You have two options,” Ra’s whispers into his neck, his beard scratching gently against the soft skin. “One: you get up and take your clothes off. Two: I tear these gaudy rags off you myself.” 

Roman pulls back a little. His vision is unfocused, but he can see those deep blue eyes very clearly, mockery in their glittering depths. It’s hard to pull away, but he loves his expensive Dolce & Gabbana suit far too much to let it suffer such a fate. 

Ra’s watches him intently as he undresses. 

“The gloves, too,” he says, and Roman snarls. He almost never touches anything with his bare hands, and he certainly doesn’t intend to start. 

Ra’s himself doesn’t strip—he just unzips his pants. His underwear is also black, and Roman swallows nervously, staring at the formidable bulge before him. 

Ra’s beckons him closer. When Roman finally resumes his place in Ra’s’ lap, Ra’s takes hold of the glove at his wrist, unsnaps it, and pulls the thin leather from Roman’s hand. Roman shakes with helpless rage and shameful pleasure; watching the gold leather slowly turn inside out in Ra’s’ hands is almost unbearable. 

Fuck. All right, then. 

When he slips his hands into Ra’s’ pants, it’s like being struck by lightning. The man’s cock really is huge, and hot. Roman wraps both hands around him—and still can’t cover everything. He lets out an astonished moan. 

“Not sure I’m ready for this.” 

Ra’s smirks and traces a finger across his lips with firm pressure. 

“Use your mouth. I bet it’s what you’re best at.” 

He shoves Roman off his knees, but doesn’t let him fall. Ra’s grips his elbow, and guides him down to the floor almost gently. Roman finds himself between Ra’s’ legs, right in front of his cock. For a long, bloodthirsty moment Roman considers his options, but then a heavy hand descends onto his skull again. Roman lets out a hot breath and takes that cock into his mouth. 

Ra’s is impeccably controlled: he doesn’t make a single sound, only slouches down a little in the seat and spreads his legs wider, lets his eyelids drop as his head tips back. Roman can’t bear that kind of control, so he tries his damnedest to get a reaction. At last he succeeds: al Ghul’s fingers clench in his hair, hold his head down, and his hips twitch forward. Roman lets Ra’s fuck his mouth—now he can finally get a hand around his own aching length. Roman moans at his own touch, and Ra’s pushes forward harder, nearly choking him. 

He wishes it had been a grenade launcher. 

Ra’s grasps his chin, presses his fingers against Roman’s jaw and forces his mouth to open wider. Roman squeezes his eyes shut. Those commanding touches drive him wild and his hand strips over his cock fast and raw. 

“Hands.” There’s a note of warning in Ra’s voice. “Did I tell you to touch yourself?” 

Roman pitches back, wanting to pull off and tell him to fuck off, but al Ghul anticipates his movement and shoves Roman’s face deeper into his lap, until the head of his cock thrusts into Roman’s throat. Fine, then! Roman lets go, moves his hands away; he’s determined to come untouched. Just to spite Ra’s. 

He’s so wound up by Ra’s’ quickening thrusts that he might even manage it. Again Roman regrets that he hadn’t prepared himself—at least he could’ve put in a plug. It would’ve come in handy right about now. 

Just before Ra’s comes, he shoves Roman back sharply and comes on his face. Roman screws his eyes shut and licks his lips. Nobody ever dared to come on him, and his rage is blinding, but the  _ need _ is even worse. A little more and he’ll start begging—and that, of course, cannot be allowed. 

Ra’s al Ghul puts himself back together: puts on his clothes, and, leaning forward, tugs Roman back onto his lap. He snags a napkin from the table and wipes his spend from Roman’s face. 

“Good boy,” he says, approvingly. Roman wants to bite him, carve out a piece of his face, but he still hasn’t touched himself. 

Ra’s pushes two fingers into his mouth, thrusts a few times until they’re good and wet, then brings that hand to Roman’s exposed ass. Roman grabs his shoulders with a yell—those two digits are wide as some of the cocks he’s taken! But he throws his head back and shoves himself down on those fingers even harder. At the same time a large hand finally wraps around his cock. 

It takes only a few rough, arrhythmic pulls for him to come, and then he sags, staring up at the ceiling with sightless eyes for a few seconds. Ra’s cleans him up, his touches careful and almost gentle. A lazy smile spreads over Roman’s face. 

“Up.” Ra’s slaps his ass, and Roman unwillingly slides off Ra’s’ knees. In the time it takes him to get his bathrobe—his favorite, the silken burgundy one—Ra’s has put his jacket on again. He looks just as calm as he had at the beginning, and clearly means to go. 

Roman pauses in the doorway and leans against it. 

“That’s it?” he asks, echoing Ra’s own words from before. 

Ra’s smirks. “Until next time, Roman. Oh, and—apology accepted.” 

Roman watches Ra’s’ departure from his window—someone opens the door of a black Rolls Royce for him, god, what a bore. Roman doesn’t even notice as he starts to hum Canary’s song.  _ Why don’t you hit me with your best shot, oh? _

The club’s probably overdue for redecorating, after all. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Orientalld and robinasnyder for bringing us this ship. Orientalld’s art is incredible, and robinasnyder is a wicked enabler. 
> 
> Please accept my contribution to this budding tag 😂


End file.
